Monthly Archive for August, 2006Page 3 of 6

A Multiple’s Mirror

Published
by
Austin
on August 19, 2006
in Dissociative Identity Disorder, Mental Health and Therapy
. 3 Comments

A Multiple’s Mind-Saturday, August 19th, 2006- 5AM EST

I ran across the painting Private Perceptions on Keeper’s Korner just a bit ago . It’s one of those things ever multiple can relate to. When I look in the mirror I do not recognize myself. When I go in the restroom I keep my head down and avoid the mirror. When I wash my hands I keep my head down to avoid eye contact with whomever I’ll see today. The painting Private Perceptions is right on the mark as far as what a lot of multiples feel about looking in the mirror.

I once did a whole picture collage of the different me-plural’s. The people inside use to take a lot of pictures of themselves so that I could see them and know them. When I look at those photos I can tell who is who. I can see the face of the little ones and the face of the stronger ones, or the meek Maureen. It is odd to not know which image is truly yours. I also don’t like the fact that I can’t switch without notice. The look on my fact tells Blossom “who is out” at the moment. I can try and hide it all I want but my body language, my speech patterns, what I’m wearing won’t allow me to honestly say, “you’re wrong, I’m Austin.” I liked hiding. I do not like how more people can tell without me first spilling the beans. When my friend UK was told her response was, “Oh, I knew that” or something to that effect. I was like, damn, I use to be so good at hiding this. She’s not the only person that told me she knew before I told them. The funny thing is, I can spot a multiple a mile away. I can spot abuse survivors as easily as I spot sunflowers. We tend to have certain body languages that tell more than we want people to know. I suppose the same characteristics they display that identifies them to me are the same ones I display that identify me as one who lived through abuse.

My hands, I seem to take a lot of pictures of them too. It’s almost like they don’t belong to me. Like somehow they are separate from everything else. I don’t recognize them when I see them and often it catches me off guard. That feels really stupid when I jump because of a hand that is apparently mine. Whats worse is when I wipe my face and feel a slight uneasiness as my hand makes it’s way to my face. On one level I can say, this is my hand but on another it seems so foreign to me that I question where it came from. That must really sound odd, that sometimes (a lot) I don’t recognize my own body. The pictures I took of my hands were to get some sort of glimpse into ???? I don’t know what I was looking for. I did a lot of artwork with those pieces I know that much. One thing my hands are good for are the quick snack type fingernail munching I do when I’m nervous. Then they move to my hair and start twirling it. That’s what I did in therapy last week. I was so nervous I didn’t want to sit down. I paced for a second or two then plopped down on a very unfamiliar love seat. I’ve been to his office many times but each time I go it seems different. I forget what he looks like too. I don’t know him until I see him because I can’t picture his face. I sit through maybe the first 5 minutes trying to get myself to pull up the information from someplace just out of reach, “Is this guy my therapist? Just act like you know it and keep talking. My goodness I don’t remember the pattern on the love seat being so awful.” That’s not the last of the comments from the Peanut Gallery. Sometimes they’re just outright funny. Robert says that if he were a prehistoric bird he’d be a pterodactyl. He has such long arms that the wing span on him would be tremendous. Most of the time though, through out the session I just want to yell, “I’M SCARED!” but I can never muster the courage to say it. It feels like it would come out of my mouth like projectile vomiting.

Me

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My Grandfather’s Death Hurts: Part 1 of 2

Published
by
JoanofArc
on August 18, 2006
in Art, Borderline Personality Disorder, PTSD, Relationships, Segments, Soapbox and Therapy Assignments
. 2 Comments

Image Copyright 2006 @ Sundrip JournalsThis is pretty bitter post and maybe even a display of some borderline behaviors going on with me and the mother situation. I’m clearly having some issues with this. I think the issue is that my mother may die of grief because she lost her father who to her hung the moon.

I didn’t put any time in the “bitter Hallmark” card. When I made it I intentionally left the card blank and in mix format so I could open it up at a moments notice and plug in whatever was appropriate. And speaking of appropriate, somebody needs to come out with a line of greeting cards that aren’t mushy or too personal, something survivors and other bitter people would feel comfortable sending to that one special asshole. When I sent cards to the mother I walked away frustrated because they all say stuff like, “You’re always there for me” or something equally as untrue like, “You loved me above all others.” I mean dang; it’s a good thing I don’t celebrate holidays. What kind of mother’s day card would I have sent? My goodness! If I wanted to send a card to my sister I couldn’t send a “you’re the best sister in the world” card. Awhile ago I read on PostSecret.com where a lady said that she tries to find funny cards to send to her mother because the one’s that say I love you are a lie. I know how that is. I wish I had saved that one when I saw it.

Continue reading ‘My Grandfather’s Death Hurts: Part 1 of 2′

My Grandfather’s Death Hurts: Part 2 of 2

Published
by
Austin
on August 18, 2006
in Art, Mental Health, Segments and Soapbox
. 1 Comment

Last night I did not expect to snot up a hand towel over my grandfather. I always thought of him as a weak man, someone who let things happen that never should have happened. There are a lot of admirable things I saw in him as an adult but as a child I saw a weak man who refused to protect his own children and his grandchildren. He didn’t want to rock the boat at home. His famous phrase was, “You get to go home. I have to live with her.” I see things a lot differently now. I think to myself, “How tired you must have been, living with her day after day.” Somehow I miss him. Even though I didn’t know him very well I miss him. He seemed to like me though.

When my great-grandmother was ill and everyone congregated at the hospital the grandmother (Nana) told everyone to brace themselves because Grandmamma (her mother) looked really bad. She said, “Don’t go in there crying.” They weren’t going to let the kids go in and see her because they said it would be too devastating for us to see. My Aunt (aka the slut) piped up and said, “It probably wouldn’t bother the Duck she doesn’t really have a heart.” My grandfather piped up and said, “Don’t let her out side fool you; she’s not as hard as you think.” He winked at me and I walked into the room to see Grandmamma. We had a short conversation in her native tongue and then we left. I didn’t drop a tear. The way I found out she died was over the phone when Nana told Mama she was gone. That is when I cried, it’s also when Mama and my sister laughed and asked if I was actually feeling something. Oh, they are such nice people. My great-grandmother (Grandmamma) had leukemia as a child but it went into remission and didn’t reappear until she was 93 years old. It took her fast; it only took 3 months to take her from a thriving woman to small framed, pale, soft spoken shell. According to my mother her death was my fault. Mama said that if my sister and I had written Grandmamma more letters maybe she would have lived longer. (As we know letter writing can cure leukemia.) If we’d gone over to visit more maybe she would have lived longer (because home visits from my sister and me would have kept the leukemia from taking her so soon). I was 15 when Grandmamma died, how would I drive myself out of town to visit her? That is as absurd now as it was then.

My grandfather did not have a sense of humor which to me shows some sort of character flaw. I do not remember him ever laughing. He smiled a devious, up to no good smile when he was about to tease one of the grandkids but he never out right laughed. Sometimes my sister and I would climb on his lap and give him a kiss on the cheek. We’d say, “It’s your turn grand-daddy.” He wouldn’t kiss us so we’d press our cheek up against his hairy mustache lip and make a smacking kissing sound. He’d give a grin and turned a little red but he never pushed us away.

I believe my mother inherited her bad cooking rather honestly. Nana and grand-daddy were horrible cooks. One time my mother had her head in the fridge and yelled, “Daddy, is this meat loaf in here any good?” He said, “What meatloaf?” Come to find out it was actually jello with a bunch of fruit in it. How someone could jack up jello so badly that it looks like meatloaf is beyond me. My mother got her horrible cooking skills honestly. Nobody and I do mean nobody puts bananas in cornbread. It’s unthinkable. It’s sick.

I barely knew my grandfather. What I knew of him early on was not what I came to know as an adult. Yes, I think he should have stepped in. I think he should have made sure that his own kids weren’t abused by their mother. I think he should have stepped in and stopped all 4 of his daughters from abusing their children. I think he should have stepped in when his grandchild started abusing her son. He was silent and that makes him guilty in my book. Somehow though, I find it easier to forgive him for that than I do family members that hurt me and the other kids.

I didn’t even realize I’d forgiven him. I was talking about him to a friend awhile back and I realized there wasn’t fire in my chest. I wasn’t angry or resentful. He is responsible for his silence but for me ….I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Perhaps it’s easier to forgive someone who could see the real you. He knew I had a heart (he still let it be broken), that I felt as other people did (yet he allowed them to hurt me) and he didn’t hesitate to say I was a good person when need be (he should have spoken up when they were hurting me). From that I can only conclude that he didn’t see me as disgusting but he also didn’t see me as worth saving. Maybe the thought he couldn’t, I don’t know. It was a complex situation. I make no excuses for him, I hold no resentment either. Maybe I’m confusing forgiveness with the same kind of apathy that he showed me.

I know that I hold in my heart the hope that one day things will change between me and my family. When my grandfather died I knew there would never be a time when we could get to know each other. I didn’t just lose my grandfather; I lost a bit of hope because things will never be fixed between us two. I hope that I come to a point in my life when I do not fear my desire to have a family. The very thought of it frightens me. I only know it one way.

This is the very first poem that I ever wrote. I was 9 years old.

Shadows

Slowly as my heart stood still
And I drank my fill
The man I loved left me to find a dream he had
Without my burden he’ll find it.
Left alone I sit in the dark,
My lonely heart will stop
For only shadows I speak to now
The dreary things accept me.

How on earth a 9 year old could talk about drinking her sorrows away because she can’t stand being a burden any longer is truly beyond me. Love, abandonment, loneliness and acceptance are things that I still struggle with. Austin’s August

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My Grandfather’s Death Hurts: Part 2 of 2 - I see things a lot differently now, with more complexity than before

Friday, August 18, 2006-10:00AM EST

**Comments have been closed. This is now an archived post. Feel free to drop me a line at the guest book link found on the sidebar**

Reaction To Death In The Family

Published
by
Austin
on August 17, 2006
in Mental Health
. 5 Comments

I did not expect to feel so badly about his death.

I didnt know I’d feel angry…at him for dying. It’s like, oh hell no, you weren’t supposed to go anywhere. It bothers me too that he is the very last of his generation to hold that name. It’s kind of like ….extinction.

I read a few journals today and some of them touched on death. I couldnt even finish reading them. I had this anger grow in my chest and I just got up and walked away! I am pissed!!!

He’s been sick forever, years upon years. Somehow I expected him to live forever. I knew him since I was a kid. I think about the friend of mine that died a year ago and I still haven’t erased her email address. I just cant seem to do it. Cause she wasn’t supposed to go anywhere either. I just talked to her the day before.

I have to go to bed for therapy tomorrow.

I dont even know why I’m crying. I dont knw if I’m angry or sad or what. I have to go to therapy tomorrow. I keep throwing up and that is getting very old.

Reality TV Confessions- Supernova

Published
by
Austin
on August 16, 2006
in General Chatter and Stupid People
. 2 Comments

I am shamefully addicted to Rockstar Supernova. And I check out the website. I know..Im sick. I’m sorry. Am I the only black chick out here watching the show? Can I show my face in public anymore knowing I drool over those people? Not so much Lukus but hey Ryan Star and Storm Strong are pretty hot. Lukus sings pretty well, actually he’s pretty darn good. I figure him to win but he just seems so emotional….he reminds me of a smaller (if that’s possible) but a smaller version of Billie Joe, the lead singer of the band Greenday. I KNOW they have the same hair dresser. Lukus will later have a reality TV show about getting clean…he looks like he’s on heroin. He needs to hook up with the ever so classy Courtney Love. See, I can say this stuff, as cruel as it is, because I’m not on national TV. I think sometimes they’re all in competition to see who can be the meanest judge.

I’m also a Survivor fan but as long as I live I will not watch Big Brother. That will never happen to me. I use to rush home to watch Survivor. I even checked out their site…okay, like Rockstar it was in my bookmarks. I’ll admit it, I needed Survivor Rehab bad!

I’m also ashamed to admit that I like NASCAR racing AND golf. I’m so sorry…I’m just soooo sorry. Hale Marry full of grace….I don’t know what’s happening to me.

Congrats to Tiger Woods for winning the 50th cup. Great Job bro. The man is not only cute but he is, in my opinion, the youngest golf prodigy alive. Have to say he’s good about charity too with his golf school and all.

So I watched Rockstar last night and it was a killer show but dang Tommy Lee was just mean to the blond girl that sang I will survive. He said about her performance, “that was sautéed in wrong” then he said that he wanted his money back for taking her to Vegas. That was just cruel. I think people compete to say the most cruel things to people on TV. What a jackass that Tommy was tonight. I don’t like his little skinny ass anyway…not after beating up Pam Anderson like that. I know she’s a ho but you don’t even beat up on ho’s. That is sautéed in wrong. And…what ever happened to him going back to college? Let me guess, he got expelled for possession or maybe because he just couldn’t cut it in the college marching band. It was sad watching him. And yes, I watched the show several times. I’m sorry about that too. Anyway though. I didn’t think Storm was “that” bad. It wasn’t a Supernova sound but it was pretty decent to me….The last note she hit was awesome. Her name is Storm Strong, which is an awesome name too.

Supernova site

This is filed under stupid people because Tommy was just flat out mean tonight.

I have to sleep now.

 

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Therapy Assignment: Letter To An Abuser

Published
by
JoanofArc
on August 16, 2006
in Dissociative Identity Disorder and Therapy Assignments
. 1 Comment

Therapy Assignment: Letter To An Abuser-My Sister-Wednesday, August 16, 2006-5:04AM

The thing is, even though my sister had a hand in some really unpleasant thing, my ability to forgive her is much like that of my other grandfather that died. Am I angry with her? No, not really. I’m more frustrated that I can’t MAKE her love me. The mother saw to it that she and I wouldn’t get close. I guess it’s the divide and conquer thing. It worked because she hates the ground I walk on. It’s easier to forgive her because I know that …I hope that under different circumstances she would not have been so mean or abusive.

Sleeping in the same room with her wasn’t a picnic. I had to worry about her coming over to my bed too. She didn’t do that often but many times she’d lay there and tell me what she was going to do to me OR tell me that when I went to sleep she was going to kill me. I think I saw my sister more as a victim than an abuser because I knew that she was living with the mother too. I knew she had to endure her for 3 years before I came along. I also knew that inside, she was dead way before I was born. I just didn’t see her as evil because you have to be alive; you have to feel something to be evil. She was simply dead and had been for some time. By the 4th grade (a pivotal year for me) she and I were pretty much fighting for food, for space, for hiding places. When I ran away one time I ran to the place I use to hide. I hid in the base of a hollowed out tree about 3 blocks from home. The mother sent her after me. She went straight for the tree. She knew exactly where I was because she use to hide there too.

Sometimes I thought my sister was just a fucking coward. She never stood up for herself. She was a smiler, the “Yes mame” kind of kid, the cry on demand, laugh on demand, can I get you anything to drink kinda kid. I later realized she wasn’t a coward, she was just scared to death of getting hit one more time. She was this long slender string bean of a kid that got picked on for being in special education classes. There was more than one time I pulled someone off of her when she wouldn’t even punch back. I hated seeing her cower like that. It made me so angry that I’d go home after kicking some ass to go verbally beat hers. Although she could find it in her heart to hit me I could never (save once) hit her back. I loved her too much Dr. B. I just couldn’t see myself smacking her around. She made me furious sometimes but there was only one time I hit her. It was more of an ambush kind of thing because I wanted to send her skinny self a message to stop hitting me. But overall, I just couldn’t hit her. I could not bring myself to do it. How can you slam your fist in the face of someone you love again and again? The whole time you look them in the eye and beat them and watch the fear in their eyes disappear to nothingness, just emptiness. It’s not even sorrow anymore, it’s just a dead, emptiness. How on God’s earth can anyone say they love you but still hit you like that?

I spent a very long time making up for something that I did to my sister in the 4th grade. Man that was a bad year. It seemed like nothing at all went right that year. This particular day the mother was angry because “someone” broke an Oriental umbrella. The bamboo ring on the top slipped off and I couldn’t get it back on. She stood us together at the wall and asked us who did it. Before she let us answer she said, “Who ever did this is getting their hands whipped.” She was holding her favorite weapon, a dowel rod. I lied through my teeth Dr. B. I lied and kept lying because I just couldn’t see my hands under that dowel rod. That was the one thing I could not leave from. I felt the whole thing and I just couldn’t tell her it was me. She believed the sister did it so she beat the palms of her hands with the dowel rod. The twist is that I had to stand there and watch it. I watched her hold her palms up and scream as she jumped up and down because it hurt so badly. I dream often about my sister and brother being abused. I see that one day when I lied and I regret it greatly but if I had to do it all over again I swear I’d lie again. It was just too much pain, I couldn’t leave from that so I let the sister take that one. She must have thought I was horrible. She knew I was lying through my teeth. She kept telling me to tell the truth, tell the truth she kept saying. Each time she said it I was more resolved to keep lying. I knew I was convincing the mother even after she said that if someone didn’t confess that we’d both get it. Dr. B, I just couldn’t, not that time. Obviously the guilt is pretty strong still. Is that one time enough to erase all the hurt she did in later years? No, but somehow I do not harbor much resentment for her and I certainly do not hate her the way I do the mother.

I miss her. I miss the stuff we use to do to my grandmother. We were mischievous at times and somehow got away with it. One time we turned all the paintings and family pictures upside down. It took her awhile to notice it. We thought it was funny but she was rather irritated. My sister and I used sign language, which at the time my mother was not fluent in. So while my mother spoke I stood behind her out of view and signed to my sister but didn’t sign what my mother was saying. My sister is not Deaf nor is she hard of hearing. So she knew full well that what I was signing wasn’t what the mother was saying. Man was it funny to see my sister listen to her and me at the same time and try to keep a straight face.

the sister gripped by the mother aka FearI miss her but I know that like the mother, she too is lost to me. It’s not like there is ever going to be anything between us except resentment. That resentment would be on her part though. She still lives at home. She’s 38 years old and passed up marriages to two very nice men because of the mother. Everything was fine until it came time to get married then she would tell the sister and her husband to be that if they were to marry that she had to come live with them in , and I quote: “mother-in-law quarters.” She would build them a house and have her own wing and that’s how it would be if he was to marry her daughter. My sister said, “fine” the gentlemen said, “good-bye.” My sister has passed up life itself because for her, getting out from under my mother’s thumb was only possible had she not been broken so early. I wish I could have known the big sister she could have been had my mother decided to love us.

The letter I wrote to her is just kind of talking about stuff we did together. I thought that I’d write an angry letter with the standard, “you did this to me, you little bitch.” But when I got the pen and paper out that’s not what flowed.

We do not all feel the same way about the sister but I can’t think of anyone that hates her.

We did not put the letter in open format on the journal. You’ll have to use the password to get in it. For some reason Wordpress writes the word PROTECTED before the entry but that is NOT part of the title. They know how to be dramatic don’t they?

See ya Thursday

Me

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Protected: Therapy Assignment: A Letter

Published
by
JoanofArc
on August 16, 2006
in Dissociative Identity Disorder, Therapy and Therapy Assignments
. 0 Comments

The letter is on the net in case I don’t remember to bring it in. I’ve also put it on password protect because it’s not something I want public. If you click the pictures they get big enough to read. Use your back key to return to this site.

Austin

Page 1 of 3

Page 2

Page 2 of 3

Page 3

Page 3 of 3

When you click on the picture keep your mouse on the image. Look in the lower right corner and a sizing image will pop up to make the letter even larger. If all esle fails print it off.

Austin

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My Reply- Velvet Sacks - Death In The Family

Published
by
JoanofArc
on August 16, 2006
in My reply
. Closed

15-08-06

Velvet Sacks said: “I’m sure there are others who can do that for her.”

Austin said:

That never even occured to me. Goodness. When I was a child it was not my resoponsibility to keep her alive and happy even though she said it was. She said what I did decided if she lived or died. I seem to still kick into that mode of, “let me go take care of her needs.” Morton decided without question that she will not be called.

JofA
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Death In The Family - No Guilt Allowed

Published
by
Austin
on August 14, 2006
in General Chatter and Mental Health
. 3 Comments

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It’s weird that I’d journal about my mother’s death. She’s not the one who is dead. It’s a male family member that died and I’m not certain how I feel about it. I’ve known about this for only an hour so this is my raw response. My concern is that someone will want to call the mother to give condolences. That is not a good idea. So I have to think of it this way, she forfeited all rights to support the day she decided to torture me. The day she decided it wasn’t possible to lay a gentle hand on me all daughter expectations were shredded and burned. when she moved from beatings to out right physical torture she forfeited it all. how could she possibly believe that some day when I got older I’d be there for her? It is my hope that I can maintain this level of anger so that I do not pick up the phone and make that call. Calling wouldn’t be to say, hey, sorry you lost a loved one. It would be to hear her voice and set up and insider for disappointment because that little cub still longs and hopes that something has changed. but damn she’d call me by that name and it would just be over!!!!!

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There is no way on earth that I’d let the other Pride members talk to her. It’s always me that addresses that woman but this cub would be close by listening and hoping…the same hope that’s been dashed a thousand times over. Watching the sparkle of hope turn to a tear of grief is not something I will set her up for, not again. I’ve got to learn my lessons too and if I make that call the tears are on me because I picked up the goddamn phone. I have to keep reminding myself that the choice is now mine and no one (not even personal guilt) can actually dictate that I should call. Nobody sees what these Pride members see at night or fear at night. No one sees me look over my shoulder everytime I leave the house so that I’m not surprised by her presence. The fear is great. yeah, Morton’s scared because she’s a horrible, horrible person. She’s also the bodies mother which has it’s own set of problem but add main abuser to that you’ve got one fuckin sick bond that is hard to break. so yeah, I’m scared. I’m scared she’s going to come up to my house but I just remembered something. We have two cats and Captain. They aren’t coming here! I forgot about that. Sheshh..that’s good to know.

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The guilt may be strong that I do not call but I have more than my own conscience to worry about. So I have to remind myself that she gave up this right and that I’d be giving up too much to make that phone call. Goddamn I can’t even believe I thought of calling.

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Dr.Willow-esque asked me what I would do about giving her mother her address ad phone number. I need to take my own advice. I also need to stop checking the fuckin obituaries. Damnit to hell I have fucked up my night for sure. I think medication would be in order. Clonapin here I come followed by a few stretches and a leap on the love seat to sleep. I will print off my reply to Dr. Willow-esque and post it so I can remind myself that I have come too far to turn back now.

I do believe this might be the very first post I’ve written in this journal that wasn’t was processing for me and not a reply to a comment. I might have to do this more often. It’s different seeing it written out than it is saying it.
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Morton of Morton’s Pride

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Relaxation: Part 1 of 3

Published
by
Austin
on August 14, 2006
in Gratitude Journal, Mental Health, Segments and Therapy
. 2 Comments

Relaxation: Stress is a g-force Part 1 of 3 -Sunday, August 13, 2006-9:19 PM EST

You don’t have to be a rocket scientist to know that anxiety is like a g-force, the more you have the more damage to your body. Well, I’ve figured out a way to maximize my relaxation time and shed off some of those “g-forces” so that when other “g-forces” come along I’m a bit recharged and better able to handle the pull. (G-forces can dramatically raise and lower your blood pressure.)

Setting aside quiet time for myself each day has been a struggle but I’m doing better at managing it. I only need 30 min of silence to ground or center myself but most of the time I struggle to get 10 min of silence. It must seem strange that someone with no children, no husband or other family obligations, no job and no vehicle would struggle to find some down time. It’s not that simple. I struggle to keep up with things because the reality is, I have inside children (toddlers, teens and older teens) and a whole inside family that come and go. Even though we share a physical body we do not always share needs and wants. And like anyone, they have up and down days, babble on about things or need to talk things out, journal, play and basically live. So it’s like living with several roommates who never leave for work or play. We’re all together every single minute of the day. Alone time isn’t something a multiple gets, not really.

Another reason relaxation time is hard to manage is the amount of time it takes to do household chores for us. My laundry load is tremendous because if I switch to a person who doesn’t want to wear what the other person was wearing then they toss it on the floor for it to be walked on. If I’m gone for two hours a day that’s two outfits a day that are now on the floor and being used as a bed for the kitties and for Cappy. Oh how Cappy sheds! I don’t like fur shirts so they have to washed. I did figure out that I can toss it in the dryer and let the dryer pull off the hair. But if it stinks or is dirty in any way then it has to be washed.

The reason they change outfits has to do with what makes them feel safe. Maureen (23 or 24 yrs old) needs long sleeves that cover her hands. The pants don’t really matter to her as long as they aren’t shorts. She doesn’t throw her stuff on the floor though. She’s quite the tidy one. If Robert (19 years old) comes out he’s going to dress in a grunge type style which was in style when the body was that age. He has to have his baggy blue jeans or some sort of baggy utility pants, is pocket knife, his wallet with the chain and a baseball cap. His pockets are usually filled with “stuff” like what parents find in their teens’ pants when they wash them. It is not any different when it comes to stuff like that. If Morton comes out I know right away because the dress clothes are out. And no, Morton (age 35) doesn’t do a lot of cleaning up after himself. He says it’s not his job, that’s too funny. Anyway … so if you add the care of all in Morton’s Pride (please don’t ask how many) with the physical body’s limitations (Lupus, Fybro, aged bones, etc.) and then factor in money management, psych appointments, medical appointments, friends and everyday life stressors one can easily see that it’s hard to eek out time to relax.

I personally believe my neighbor UK is wonder woman. She has a husband, two kids, two jobs and still manages to cook every evening, keep that house spotless, the yard mowed, the laundry done and entertainment for the kids all while trying to handle her own Lupus, Fybro and abuse issues. The woman is remarkable. I can’t say it enough. All of it is killing her though, I can’t say that enough either. If there ever was a story for someone to tell about a parental hero, it would be this girl. If ever there was a story to tell about a person who just doesn’t stop, it would be about this girl. I applaud and sympathize with those who do all she does. There is a strong moral sense that should be noted as well as the sense of dedication to her family and friends.

How does a person keep going while handling all of that? If a person doesn’t stop at some point … well, they will stop. It’ll be the last stop though and it’ll be premature. A person has to realize that their premature death or hospitalization will leave what they’ve worked so hard on undone. If a person has no choice but to live life this way then please find a moment to recharge because if you don’t who is going to be around to care for the kids? Who will be around to care for the 3 dogs and 3 cats, a turtle, an aquarium and a hamster? Nobody takes care of that but my friend UK. I know there are others living life this way. I also know they’ve heard that without some sort of self care they won’t be able to keep going. No one can drive a car at 80 mph for hours on end, for miles upon miles on one tank of gas. The car (your body) will sputter and cough, jerk a few times then slowly come to a stand still.

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UK said to me, yes I need to do this but where would I find the time? It is easier for me to say “you must find the time” than it is for her to actually find the time. But there has to be a way to take 5 min for personal time. If there is a way to keep on top of a mountain of responsibilities there must certainly be a way to take five minutes to refuel. I do not intend to imply that if UK dies of working so hard that it’s her fault because she didn’t find the 5 min a day to relax. I do not intend to imply any person that works that hard while neglecting their needs is at fault if they fall ill or die. This entry isn’t about blame; it’s about physical and mental maintenance. What I’m saying is, if a person is stuck living with extremes then perhaps suggesting ways to recharge would be more helpful than simply being a listening ear for as they multitask. Suggesting down time for someone with so much on their shoulders is simply saying, “Let’s stop for gas.” There is no blame involved in suggesting that we stop for gas, there’s no lack of sympathy, understanding or compassion to suggest ways to help a friend. I know for myself that if I expect to keep driving this vehicle (this body) I’ve got to refuel so that I don’t do a premature slow roll with a final stand still.

Austin’s August

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